Returning, We hear the Larks
by Mesalline
Summary: When Jack accidently activates a new piece of Alien technology, he suddenly finds himself pitched in 1917, right in the middle of the Battle of the Somme. Will the team be able to figure out whats happened, or leave him to take the long path back?
1. Sombre Nights

_Authors Notes: Based on a poem by Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918)_

_For my Great Grandfather, who fought in World War Two. A brave man, who is still greatly missed. _

**_Returning we hear the Larks_**

_Sombre the night is_

**_Cardiff, 2007__, 1.00 am_**

Captain Jack Harkness spared a glance at his computer screen when a flashing light caught his eye. An Alarm. He abandoned his paper work before you could say "It's bigger on the inside" and turned his full attention to the piece of technology he hated so much. Personally; he didn't know what Tosh saw in computers, but then again, he wasn't a self proclaimed computer geek. On the other hand, that self proclaimed computer geek saved his life more times than he cared to count, so he was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt when it came to such matters as computers.

Jack quickly located the source of the alarm, and was vaguely surprised. It was the new piece of alien technology they had brought in just that week. Tosh hadn't even finished researching and cataloguing it yet.

Downing the last dregs of his Coffee, Jack stood up warily and stretched, before heading to the containment area. He was the only one left in the hub, the others had all gone home hours ago. Jack checked his watch. 1.00 am. _I should really cut down on these long nights,_ he thought. But he had nothing better to do, and he didn't like or need to sleep, so what was the point?

Standing outside the door, and feeling faintly stupid as he fumbled with his over-large chain of keys, he wondered why on earth he had so many keys in the first place. His hand lingered on the TARDIS key, before harshly pushing it aside. _This is not the time to get sentimental, thank you very much._ Finally he came to what he thought was the right key, and jammed it unceremoniously into the lock. It opened with a satisfyingly loud _click._

Jack hesitated. Should he have brought his gun? The Webley Pistol was only sat on his desk; he could easily go back for it. But then, he wouldn't need it, would he? It was only routine, after all. With a pang he remembered something he'd told Captain Jack, the real Captain Jack.

"They'll get you when you least expect it."

He felt uneasy and on edge as his hand hovered over the handle. Gut instinct was telling him to call the others and wait for back up. His gut instinct was usually right- usually. But it was now 1.30am in the morning. Calling Owen would be out of the question. Owen would probably be lying in a ditch somewhere after a drunken night out or in bed like the rest of the world. Ianto and Tosh would also be asleep most certainly. And Gwen would be too- and Jack wanted her to keep a hold of her life.

No, he'd have to go this one alone. But he was worried- and that in itself frightened him. What could an immortal man have anything to worry about?

Before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

**_France, The Somme__, 1916, British Trench, 3.00 am_**

The ground shook beneath their feet as shells pounded the sodden earth around them. The sky was alight as machine gun fire blazed through the air constantly. Sewer rats scattered for cover as a shell blew apart the north side of the trench. Bodies and rats alike were thrown into the air and scattered like rag dolls across the devastated trench. Through the mud and the noise young William Pritchard screamed for the loss of his brother.

James coughed and spluttered, dragging himself through the mud and the carnage. He ignored the sharp pain shooting through his leg, the lad stood next to him was now headless, he should be grateful. He paused and closed his eyes, desperately trying to erase the gruesome image of the young boy out of his mind. It didn't work.

His whole body ached; he was about ready to give up. Another shell exploded over head, missing him by inches. A wave of mud and blood hit him. He was covered in it, head to foot. Spitting the mud out of his mouth, he carried on. He was so close to the dug-out, he could see it, even through the mud and carnage. But his whole being was tired and worn out after a year of fighting. A rat ran passed him and hisses, bright yellow eyes glaring furiously at him.

"Bugger off!" he gasped, pulling out his gun.

The rat was huge. He'd never seen them this big at home. Huge and disgusting. The rat put its ears flat back against its greasy head and hissed, baring its sharp teeth. _These rats were fighters_, he thought numbly. _Just like us. And just like us they're killers_. James took aim and pulled the trigger.

The rat's guts were splayed everywhere, barley distinguishable from the masses of human remains. James pocketed his gun, not bothering to put on the safety latch.

He crawled through the mud, guts and body parts and god knew what else for what seemed like forever. He'd managed to block out the sound of the raging gun and shell fire by now. It was a trick he'd learned a few months ago.

Suddenly he tumbled over head first. Panicking he scrambled desperately for something- anything. The pain in his leg flared. He bit his tongue to stop himself screaming. It took a few minutes to calm himself down, before he realised with fright what he'd fallen over.

A hand was poking out from a large pile of mud and debris. A bloodied hand. God, he could see the bone. James shakily removed the debris until he could see the body. His heart nearly stopped when he recognised the uniform.

"_Oh my god, it's a Captain,"_ he thought numbly.

"_Hell, what am I going to do-?"_

This time James really did scream when the body gulped in a huge breath of air and gasped. The mans eyes flew open, and bright electric blue looked back at James green.

"Sorry about that," the man said, sitting up.

Another shell landed only yards away from them, scattering mud everywhere. Flecks of mud hit the man on the face and he blinked. A panicked look suddenly appeared behind the mans eyes.

"Where am I?" he asked.

James blinked. "France," he said, surprised. "The Somme, if you want to be exact. British Trench, so no worries their Sir. Unless you're German."

The man blanched.

"What…What year?" he asked, dazed.

_Must have concussion,_ he thought.

"1916, sir."


	2. Different Lives

_**Cardiff, 2007, The hub, 8.00 am**_

_And though we have our lives, we know_

The hub doors flew open with an almighty crash. Ianto tumbled through them and landed undignified and humiliated on the cold floor. As the second set of hub doors rolled open, Ianto stood up hastily and dusted himself down. He didn't really know why he was so embarrassed, and that made it all the more embarrassing. There was no one around.

"Sorry I'm late!" he called.

His voice echoed through the hub.

"Jack?"

Still no answer.

Ianto felt vaguely amused when he nearly shouted "Honey, I'm home!"

Ianto checked in Jacks office, and was surprised to find his desk empty. The light was still on, along with the computer. Ianto moved across to the other side of the desk and looked at the screen. The Torchwood logo was floating lazily across it. He moved the mouse slightly, and spluttered when he saw the flashing red lights.

Everything suddenly clicked into place. Ianto bolted out of Jacks office and down to the containment area, his heavy footsteps echoing ten fold around the hub. His heart lurched when he saw the door was left ajar. He pulled out his gun and edged towards the door.

"Jack?" he called again, as if hoping that by some miracle, Jack would answer. He already knew that he wouldn't. Gut instinct.

Ianto kicked open the door and pointed his gun at the room, slowly edging in sideways.

The room was empty.

Jack was gone.

_**The Somme, Medical Tent, 1916, British Trench, 9.00 am**_

"Screaming for his mother he was, raving." Said the MO, shaking his head sadly.

"That's the hundredth one today alone," said the young nurse, stood beside him.

"How many more?"

The MO shrugged.

"As long as those machine guns are roaring and theirs men left to fight, Moira, then there'll be plenty more where he came from."

Moira looked at the MO sharply.

"You're a cold hearted bastard, you know." She said icily.

The MO turned away.

"I have to be," he muttered.

Moira stayed beside the dead boy's bedside. She felt that, in some strange way, she owed it to him. He'd died alone, raving, and screaming for his mother, who had died three years ago.

She was on the verge of tears when someone screamed, making her jump.

"Moira!"

Moira hurried over to the source of the commotion. She had to grab hold of the flimsy sides of the green Medical tent to stop herself from fainting.

"Oh my…"

The jagged edges of a shell casing was stuck out of the mans chest, splintering the ribs. There was a gaping whole where his left arm should have been, the blood was gushing out of the wound. His guts and organs were turned inside out, slowly oozing out of the gaping whole in his chest. The man screamed endlessly.

Behind him were two men, covered from head to foot in mud and blood. One of them was supporting the other. One of the men had a shattered leg, leaning heavily on the taller man for support. Frightened blue eyes caught hers, and she felt a pang of misery and sympathy for him. For them all.

"Moira!" the MO screamed at her.

"Get these men seen too, now!"

Moira nodded numbly and ushered the injured soldiers over to the far side of the tent, looking for a spare bed.

"Here," she said, pointing to the bed second from the end.

The man with the shattered leg sat down and sighed in relief. Moira caught the other mans arm as he swayed dangerously.

"Will," she said softly.

A young boy turned slowly to face them. His face was hallow and gaunt.

"I'm sorry lad, but I need that bed."

William nodded, gathered the bundle in his arms and walked away.

She sat the dazed man down on the empty bed.

"Who was he?" he asked.

Moira raised her eye brows. "American are you? Long way from home, aren't ya?"

"Tell me about it," he snorted.

Moira smiled warmly. "That was William Pritchard. Just lost his brother, poor lamb." She added.

"Name?" asked Moira, taking a clip board from the end of the bed.

"Captain Jack Harkness," he drawled.

She nodded at his Uniform. "On leave are you?" she asked.

He looked confused. "Oh yeah," he said. "On leave."

"You an RAF lad?" she asked, still taking her notes.

Jack glanced up at her.

"Yes." He said, a little too quickly.

"My plane came down," he elaborated. "But I'd like to request a transfer, if that's possible."

Moira raised her eyebrows again. Who in their right minds would _want_ to come here?

"Okay, I'll send someone along shortly," she said kindly and moved over to the next bed.

Jack sat waiting in numb silence, listening to the continuous noise of bombs and shell fire in the not-to-far-away distance. Jack started to sub consciously evaluate the situation. Somehow, that piece of un-catalogued piece of alien technology had managed to transport him back in time to World War One, 1916. He had no idea of how to get back, he had no idea if the team knew he was missing, he had no idea when they would find out if they didn't know already, and he was stuck in the wrong time frame- according to his clothing. With rising panic Jack realised that he was wearing the wrong Uniform. His Uniform was from the 40's, almost forty years in the future. The designs weren't that different, in all honesty, but there were significant changes…and that would lead to questions. And he had to stay here, at all costs. If the team managed to figure out what the piece of technology did and bring him back, he figured he'd have to be in the same place, or near to where he ended up. And if the team didn't manage to bring him back…well. He'd just have to take the long path back- again. Jack suddenly became aware of a dull throbbing in his left hand. He glanced down and recoiled. The skin had burned and peeled back, revealing the harsh whiteness of the bone against the blood red skin.

"Sir?"

Jack looked up, startled.

A short stocky man, with bright red hair and kind green eyes was standing in front of him, holding a clip board and a medical box. His uniform was a bit too short for him, making him look almost comical, if it wasn't for the circumstances. He set the box down beside Jack and took out a roll of bandages and antiseptic chlorine. The man reached out and took Jacks hand gingerly in his own and began cleaning the wound.

"It's gonna sting a bit," he said as Jack winced.

The man frowned at his Uniform.

"You one o' the RAF's boys?" he asked.

Jack nodded, biting his tongue against the searing pain in his hand.

"Plane came down," he grunted. "Landed in your goddamned trenches."

The man laughed.

"You're lucky you didn't land in a German trench."

Jack shrugged. "I'm a good navigator."

They both burst out into near hysterical laughter.

"What's so funny?"

The both looked round. A very tall, lanky man stood behind them both. He narrowed his eyes at the pair, who shrunk under the glare. The man had flimsy grey hair, and a sharp grey moustache. His eyes were a shocking blue, almost the same colour as Jacks.

"Nothing sir, sorry sir."

Jack eyed the bandage warily as the other man wrapped it round his hand. His wound would heal quickly, even quicker than usual because of the antiseptic. However he couldn't refuse the treatment. That too would lead to awkward questions. He'd just have to get out of here as quickly as possible, and remove the bandage before his skin grew over the material.

"I hear you want to request a transfer?" asked the taller of the two men.

Jack nodded. "Yes sir, if that's possible."

The man shot him a piercing stare that made Jack feel like he was being X-Rayed.

He held out a hand. "General Liam Whistler."

"Captain Jack Harkness."

Whistler smiled and shook hands with Jack.

"What are the circumstances?" Whistler asked.

"He says his plane came down in our trench. Lucky, I told him-"

"Yes, thank you Harry." Whistler said sharply.

Harry blushed furiously and packed up the bandages and antiseptic. Muttering apologies he hurried away to treat the next patient.

"Sorry about him," he said rolling his eyes at Harry's retreating back.

"He's a good man, but he's a bit…simple."

Jack smiled.

"So, is that right? You're plane came down?"

"Yeah." He was surprised at how tired he sounded, and how easily the lies rolled off his tongue.

Whistler sighed. "I don't know how easy it's going to be getting you a transfer. It could take a few weeks."

Jack nodded.

"You'll have to help the men out in the mean time. Pull your weight and you'll get along fine. I know you've not been trained for this, but it's the best I can do. Okay?"

"Yes sir." He replied quietly.

"And get you're self a new Uniform," he said, frowning at Jack's attire.

He clapped Jack on the back and walked away.

Jack sighed in relief.

_**Cardiff, The hub, **__**2007, 11.00 am**_

"He's gone?!"

Owen sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Where?"

"How do I know?"

Ianto glared at his colleague in distaste.

"I came in, and Jack was gone. Zilch, Nada. No Jack."

"Have you checked-?"

"Of Course I checked CCTV! And there was nothing. There's nothing to suggest that, like last time, Jack walked away off his own bat."

It had only been a mere three weeks since Jack had returned after running away for a month. The team had been furious that he'd just left them. Ianto knew he needed to go, wherever he went. And he was significantly happier on his return. However, needless to say, the team were seething in anger. He'd been back three weeks, and he was gone. Again.

"Guys!" Tosh called from her work station.

"I think I've got something here!"

Ianto, Owen and Gwen rushed over.

"Take a look at this," she hit the 'play' button.

They saw Jack enter the containment cautiously. He disappeared behind the half closed door for a moment before a bright white light blinded the camera for a few seconds. The screen was completely white before it faded and slowly returned to a normal visibility. The room was now empty, the door hung loosely on its hinges, swinging in an unseen breeze.

_**August 1914- The war began when Germany attacked France via Belgium, using the Schlieffen Plan.**_

_**Tuesday, August 4**__**th**__**- Europe was already on the march. Britain was honouring its agreement in a treaty of 1839 to protect Belgium if the country was invaded. **_

_**The British Expeditionary Force- (BEF) the BEF were a small but well trained British Army. They were sent to help the Belgians and the French. The BEF consisted of 1000, 000 men and left Britain a few weeks quicker than the Germans expected. A quick victory was hoped to be achieved. **_

_**Christmas, 1914- by Christmas, it was clear that neither side would achieve that "quick victory." Both sides began to "Dig- In" to defend themselves from the enemy. **_

_**By the winter of 1915, two million soldiers had lost their lives. **_


End file.
